Reveling in the Now

Posts from May 2012

05/31/2012

You guys. I'm not kidding when I say Kristin's story will blow you away. It's longer than most TIHWM stories but I couldn't bear to chop it up into two parts and torture you. I am so thankful for Kristin's friendship and for the privilege of sharing her story here.

I met my husband at the altar….

I’d like to tell you it was love at first sight. We held hands, walked in the moonlight, pledged our undying love to one another and saved ourselves for that intimate exchange at the altar.

That’s not our story. Our story is one full of heaps and piles of messy, that somehow got sorted out by grace and mercy.

I arrived at the beach in the afternoon to visit my younger brother at his place. I had my little sister with me for the weekend. The apartment reeked of stale cigarettes and marijuana. It seemed to be the place where all the busboys hung out. I had spent the last two years working at the same large, family owned restaurant. With over 200 servers hired every summer, it was known in town as a large party magnet. But, I was starting to settle down. I was losing the taste for blurry nights and hung-over mornings.

I gave my brother a hug and greeted the other busboys I knew. My brother asked if I wanted a drink and opened the fridge to reveal it was stacked with nothing but Arizona Ice Tea. “No thanks,” I said.

“Hey, Kris, this is Devon.” I turned to meet his newest roommate. “He’s cute,” I thought. “Hey,” he returned. That was it. That’s how I met him. My sister leaned over to me later that day and said, “You’d have cute babies with him.” I laugh at that now, and she still says I owe her many thanks for putting the idea in my head.

But, on that day, I wasn’t interested in meeting someone new. The guy I had been seeing for almost a year, had gone MIA without even a phone call. I was so over this dating, sleeping around scene, at least for today.

Devon was smooth. He had piercing blue eyes and a pony tail. He was kind and easy to talk to. It didn’t take long for the flirting to begin. I began to lose my resolve. Maybe I hadn’t harnessed self control yet. It was time to go to bed and he quickly offered up his bed for me to share. My sister had the couch. It didn’t take him long to make his move. He was good. But, somewhere deep down, I pulled up a standard, not even a thread of one, but a standard nonetheless. “I just met you. Slow down.” I didn’t have sex with him that first night, I held out. I went to sleep feeling a trickle of self worth rest on me as I dozed off in his arms.

Little did I know that holding him off, if only for one night, would make an impression on him. He later told me, “You weren’t like other girls. You didn’t fall for my moves and jump into bed with me right away.” Looking back, I’m amazed that both of us found hope in one another on such flimsy boundaries; Because, by the next night, my resolve had disappeared. But, for him, he just needed that one night to know I was different than all the rest.

I came down over the next few weekends, but I had no expectations of this fling going anywhere. I knew the game that was played at the beach and had my heart guard up and my non committal spirit on the front line.

What I wasn’t prepared for, was getting pregnant.

The lady at the crisis pregnancy center helped me determine the week of conception. It was the same week the guy I had been dating left and the same week I had met Devon. There was no way of telling who the father was.

I consoled my girlfriend who went with me to the pregnancy center. “It’s going to be okay,” I said. She cried. “What are you going to do?” Foundations on which I had been raised began to rumble in my heart, echoes of long ago, began to whisper to me again. I was a former pastor’s kid, after all. “Two wrongs don’t make a right. I won’t use the baby to hold onto either of them. I’ll tell both guys the truth and have this baby on my own.” I went down to the beach that weekend and told my brother and Devon. I don’t remember Devon’s reaction. I think at that point I was prepared for him to disattach, plus I knew he and my brother were making plans to move to Colorado. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked. “No. I’ve got this,” I said with confidence.

He did move, to Colorado, about a month later. He hadn’t done the typical ignore my phone calls or push me away, that my heart was prepared for, but maybe it was just because he was friends with my brother. I didn’t give it a lot of thought.

I had no idea how to get a hold of the other guy, but a friend did bump into him on the streets of Philly and said, “You really should call Kristin.” He never did.

Devon and I stayed in touch after they moved. I sent him and my brother boxes of food while they were trying to find a job and get settled. We’d talk on the phone for a couple of hours, but I had not spent a moment of time painting fantasies of us becoming a happy family in my head. I had no expectations.

When I was about 6 months along, I decided to go out and visit my brother and Devon. They had moved into a town with less than 700 people in residence. It was quiet and quaint. Their condo sat at the base of two majestic mountains. It was a place to breathe in fresh air and be, just be. There was nothing to do, to distract us. We spent hours talking and getting to know one another. I was only there for a week, but the day Devon took me back to the airport, he turned to me and said, “Come back.” We both knew there was something more stirring in our hearts for one another.

I did move back. My brother moved out and about 2 hours away. Devon and I had our little haven together, without friends and family. We had lingering mornings watching snow storms roll in over the mountains and once the cold broke, long drives up the mountains. We explored glass blue lakes and wild flower fields full of Columbines. We worked together at a restaurant for a couple who had four kids. They were from Texas and loved on both of us in a gentle and non-judgmental way.

It was three months incubation for love to sprout and take root. My parents were in the midst of a bitter divorce. He wasn’t close to his father. His mother was a supportive as she could be over the phone. We had each other, in our space, in Colorado.

One morning, on my due date, he woke up and held me in the crook of his arm. “Will you marry me?” he asked. I looked into his eyes, sensing he had been unprepared for those words to come out of his mouth. “Do you mean that…did you mean to ask me that?” His eyes began to tear up, “Yeah, I think I did. I want you to marry me.” I started laughing and said, “Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you.”

We drove an hour and a half into town and with the money from his change jar; he put a down payment on a ring. We walked out with half of the ring. The other half would be delivered to us once we had paid the whole thing off. We went to a restaurant called The Rendezvous, ordered a bottle of Clos du Bois and he got down on one knee and asked me again to marry him. The guests around us clapped and cheered as I said, “Yes!”

We called our bosses and told them the news. We told them we wanted to get married right away. They congratulated us and told us they’d pick up a cake and make some phone calls to get folks there tomorrow afternoon. We drove into town and applied for our marriage license. We had an appointment the next morning, with the town pastor. He said he wanted to meet us before he agreed to marry us later in the day.

We walked into the little mountain church. I remember there being only 6-8 pews. He invited us into his office and we sat down. He said, “Before I marry you guys, I need to ask you a question. If you were to die today, where would you go and why?” He looked at me first. This was easy. My father had been a Baptist pastor. I was raised in a faith filled home by 70’s Jesus People, who had spent most of my childhood touring the country in a VW bus, performing and telling people about Jesus. They were passionate and had introduced me early on to a God who was loving and kind. They had done it right in those early years. They never lived a life of religion and rules, but one that pointed to a loving Father. I knew who my Jesus was…I had just tucked Him on a shelf for the past couple of years while I did my own thing. “If I die today, I’ll go to heaven because Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior.” Score! Slam dunk. The pastor nodded his head in affirmation then turned to Devon. I was still holding his hand. It began to shake. He said, “If I die, I’ll go to heaven because I do good things.” I heard the big X buzzer go off in my head…wrong answer. Before the pastor could begin the salvation message with Devon, tears began to roll down his cheeks. By the time the pastor asked him if he wanted to accept Jesus as his Lord and Savior, Devon’s heart was already at that altar. He repented and asked Jesus into his heart that day…our wedding day.

Those whispers of long ago began to get louder in my heart. Those truths planted in my heart as a little girl began to speak and drown out the guilt and shame I had been carrying for 9 months now. I knew, with sudden assuredness, God’s faithfulness to me. I use to pray as a young girl for Jesus to give me a husband who was as passionate about Him as I was. Those were the prayers of a 7 year old girl, who was in love with Jesus and who wanted her future husband to love Him too. Devon and I had never talked about God. I was at a place in my life where I didn’t feel worthy of sharing Jesus with others. But, here he was, on our wedding day, giving his life to Jesus. I was overwhelmed by God’s faithfulness.

We walked out to the car, a Hyundai Scoop. The windows were rolled up and the doors shut, but lying in the back of the hatch was a Monarch butterfly at least a foot long. I’d never seen a butterfly that big in my life! I told Devon that the butterfly had long been a symbol of being born again…of new life. We headed back to our condo and I went up to get a zip lock bag to keep the butterfly for my scrapbook. When I returned, the butterfly was gone.

We spent the afternoon repenting and forgiving one another for past relationships. I wish I knew who that mountain church pastor was, to thank him for the gift he gave us that day. Not only did my future husband give his life to Jesus on our wedding day, but we started out our marriage with vital tools, repentance and forgiveness.

We exchanged our vows on a mountaintop in Colorado on May 31, 1994. I met my husband at the altar and have been getting to know him ever since.

Kristin Potler, co-authors the lifestyle blog, LoveFeast Table with her BFF, Chris Ann Brekhus. Their food, fashion, and home décor blog shares inspiration on savoring a beautiful life. You can visit the beautiful finds they’ve curated at their online boutique, LoveFeast Shop. They’d love to share their inspiration boards on Pinterest, chat with you on Twitter or invite you join their table on Facebook.

05/29/2012

Moments come when my singleness feels like such a failure, it takes my breath away.

Deep down, I know this is all out of my control. That is, I could have married long ago for the sake of being married but I chose not to settle.

I chose that which is better.

I chose the road less traveled by.

No regrets.

I lived a long time believing I must be doing something wrong to still be single. I don't believe that anymore. And yet, every once in awhile, the old doubts come. The precipitating reason changes. Each time I am stunned when these feelings rise up.

A month or so ago, I sat in my living room reading a book when my thoughts wandered into unfortunate territory.

I long dreamed of soaking up familial wisdom from my mom and her mom, as well as taking a 4 generations portrait together once I had my first child.

The last picture of the three of us together, Mothers Day 2007

The generations portrait stuck out in my mind. A symbol of my failure.

I have pictures of Grandma, Mom, and me over the years but we'll never add that 4th generation picture to the collection.

Sometimes it hits me. She won't witness my wedding or hold my baby. Because I failed.

This is messy grief. This is me projecting feelings on to a future that isn't guaranteed over a past I can't change.

And, you know, it's not really about my marital status. It's about missing her. It's about realizing she's been gone for almost 5 years. Five years. How did that happen? How have we marked 5 years worth of holidays, birthdays, weddings, and funerals without her?

If I concentrate, I can remember the sound of her laugh. I can hear her saying the last words she ever said to me. I can picture her smile.

But these are all memories.

This is what five years without Grandma looks like: Mourning the losses, big and small. Thinking she should be here and remembering she is not. Days where she doesn't cross my mind and days when she barely leaves it, her advice so ingrained in me. Heart hurting for Grandpa. Wondering what it would be like if she was still here.

And then, rarely, these aching moments.

I give myself permission to feel, to grieve, to mourn. Logic will have its say but not until later. Later I will acknowledge I cannot change the past and remind myself this is what life looks like when you are left behind.

Nothing will bring Grandma back.

Nothing.

Not these portraits. Nor will getting married or continuing to stay single. This I know.

So I sit with these thoughts and let myself cry for awhile. Then I dry my eyes and move on to the next task.

I know I haven't failed. I know I can't bring her back. But sometimes, I wish I could.

05/24/2012

Let's be honest. When you get the invitation, your first impulse is to figure out what excuse you can give to not go. Tupperware, candles, kitchen products, make-up. At one time or another you've been invited to attend a party selling some product or another- at least women readers have.

Sometimes I'll go to support whichever friend is hosting. But we all know this usually leads to buying something. In one particular case, I bought a truckload of product and ended up signing up to host a party. That was actually a good decision.

Don't worry- I promise this isn't a sales pitch. While this isn't the typical fare here, I appreciate when a friend steps outside of their comfort zone for a new venture. Plus, I'm so intrigued by this idea, I can't help but share.

When my friend Caroline Lee announced she'd decided to sell LexiWynn handbags, I thought it was great for her and hoped I could evade any purse-related gatherings for awhile.

And y'all thought I was so sweet.

But then I looked at my beautiful yellow purse and its disintegrating leather. The purse I'd discovered at my favorite boutique in Geneva, IL and spent more than usual on the off chance that it would hold up better. Prior to that, I'd buy cheap purses and they'd last maybe a year. The yellow purse lasted two years.

I did not relish the thought of finding a new purse. Purses can almost be extensions of our personalities. Or maybe that's just one of my quirks.

You can just tell Caroline is a bit sassy

Because Caroline is my friend and because I needed a new purse, I looked into LexiWynn and liked the possibilities. A few weeks ago I designed my first purse.

(Full disclosure: LexiWynn has never heard of me and I received no perks or compensation for writing this.)

LexiWynn started as a cottage business and just kept on growing. The purses are Made in America- Illinois to be specific. You can read more about how the company started here.

Caroline had never sold any product before but she knew the owners well. They actually introduced her to Christ when she was a teenager and they've kept in touch all these years. She loved LexiWynn's products and wanted to support her friends. She'd also had a bad purse experience- spending a lot of money on a Big Label, only for it to fall apart. Knowing that LexiWynn purses were sturdier due to their multiple layers, Caroline felt selling LexiWynn was a win-win.

She's been learning and growing throughout this process- throwing parties, signing up for Twitter, figuring out how she can make this endeavor a successful one.

It certainly has the ingredients for success. There are plenty of options when it comes to designing a purse. The type of bag, the type of fabric, whether you want any upgrades.

I decided on The Megan. I scoured the fabric options until I came up with a few possibilities. Then it was time to mix and match. But mostly envision myself in various outfits and how the purse would work with each. I like my purses to be versatile. I have clutches and a Kate Spade purse for nicer occasions so my every day purse needs to work for a wide range of activities.

My final picks were Turkish Medallion and Champagne. Then it was a matter of deciding which one would be the primary fabric. I guess you'll just have to wait to see the final result.

The purse party was different than other product parties. We were there to design our purses. It was interactive. It didn't take me long to make up my mind. In and out. Thank you, ma'am.

I spent more than usual on this purse but I've come to appreciate the concept of quality over quantity. LexiWynn purses are built to last, provided one takes care of it.

If you're interested, Caroline is available to help you design your purse either by email or by hosting a party. You can contact her at caroline (at) lexiwynn (dot) com with any questions or to get your purse started. Plus, Caroline is just plain awesome so you should get to know her anyway.

Fun fact: Caroline is the twin sister of my former roommate Jen.

How do you feel about Tupperware Parties? What's the best excuse you've given to get out of one?

05/23/2012

Every time I move, there comes a point when I decide I should not, in fact, move.

I hold tight to this thought, as I'm surrounded by boxes and piles and the To Do list blooms with ever more items. Surely, this is all madness, I think as I look at whatever room I'm packing up. I don't actually need to move. I'll contact the lease office and tell them it was a horrible mistake and I'll be staying at least one or five more years...

I'm super happy to be guest posting for my dear friend Megan at Sorta Crunchy. Megan and her family just bought a fabulous house in OKC and are in that crazy unpacking stage right now. It seemed only fitting that I share a few of my thoughts about moving, or really, how I deal with change. And appropriately enough, she ran it yesterday- the very day of my second Nashy anniversary. Head on over to read the rest!

05/22/2012

My Hope bracelet, to be specific. After four months of daily wear, the leather cracks and stretches and begs for mercy. But I won't take it off. It will stay on until it falls off. Until Hope reaches its limit and I must find a new way to carry the symbol with me.

The parallels did not escape me. I noticed a particularly worrisome crack in the bracelet the same day I sobbed over reading a friend's pregnancy announcement on Facebook. I had reached my capacity when it came to rejoicing for others...

When Lore Ferguson emailed me last month asking if I'd guest post for her, I said "of course!" right away. She asked if I'd write about hope, my One Word for this year. As you'll see once you read my contribution, I was going through a particularly difficult time then. And yet. And yet. Still Hope called out to me. I'm glad I could commemorate the lesson learned over at Lore's blog today. Join me there? Be sure to peruse Lore's words- her blog is a favorite of mine.

Disclosure

This blog contains sidebar advertising and some contextual affiliate links. If you click through an affiliate link and purchase an item I have featured, I may receive a commission on the sale. You would never pay more for for the product- the commission comes from the regular retail price. I only feature products I genuinely like or, let's face it, love. I'm all about hyperbole. If a post or giveaway is sponsored, it is noted in the actual post. I don't blog about everything I receive, but when I do my thoughts and opinions are always my own.